


Ori'shya Burcyan - More Than Friends

by baar_ur



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, POV Third Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rating is now Explicit for a reason, Romance, Smut, Touch-Starved, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21696559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baar_ur/pseuds/baar_ur
Summary: The Mandalorian was planning on a quiet night before he headed out to Arvala-7 for the mysterious client's bounty. But it turns out an old friend wants a favor. Fortunately he's used to her kind of nonsense. He'll never admit he likes it, though.This fic started as a third-person reader-insert with a nameless female bounty hunter. It still is, mostly, but future works will have characterization.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Character, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 215





	1. A Night Out

He finds another cantina after visiting the armorer. Not the one Greef works out of. Bounty hunters start too many bar fights. Nothing too fancy. Definitely not the kind of place where the bartender will hide the good stuff as soon as a Mandalorian walks in. The one he settles on isn’t quite nice enough to be considered middle of the road. The bartender gives him a single disinterested glance before going back to filling a chipped glass. Several of the dark booths lining the back wall are empty, and he takes one.

The bar is busy enough that chatter fills the corners around the music. The sun is setting outside, and the crowd grows as more people finish their work for the day. A server drifts by to offer him a drink, but he waves them away. He prefers to sit and listen. It’s as social as he gets sometimes. Easy to close his eyes and pretend he’s participating, rather than scaring people away just with his presence. The ups and downs of wearing a helmet all the time.

“Look who we’ve got here,” someone murmurs over his shoulder.

His blaster is already drawn by the time he’s twisted to see - her.

“ _Udesii, vod,_ ” she teases. She’s not wearing a helmet - she never wears her _shab’la_ helmet - and he can see the mischievous spark in her eye as she smirks at him. “You’ll make a girl think you aren’t happy to see her.”

Holstering his blaster is enough of a reply. Her smirk evens out into a genuine smile, and she slides into the booth beside him. Her thigh pressed against his prevents him from pulling his blaster again. He still has access to his rifle, laid out on the table, if there’s trouble. And if she’s trouble, then he has a knife strapped to his other leg and her throat is bare. Invitingly so.

“How’ve you been? Business treating you well?”

He nods vaguely, scanning the crowd. Wherever she goes, her partner is rarely far behind. If they’re setting up an ambush, trying to take him down, Shyla will be somewhere near, ready to pounce. It takes a moment, but he spots her. The rust-red Togruta is at the bar, deep in conversation with a grey-skinned Quarren and teasingly stroking their facial tentacles as she speaks.

“Satisfied?”

The question catches him off guard. Again. She’s too good at that. “What?”

“Are you satisfied?” she asks again, all sweetness and innocence as she dumps the innuendo in his lap. “I could have told you we’re off-duty, but you wouldn’t take me at my word.”

“Yes, I am,” he tells her, cool and even.

“Really? I don’t think you are.” She turns toward him, her hand touching his knee and skimming up his thigh. In the darkness of the private corner, her eyes are dilated. She bites her bottom lip before she says - “Shiny new pauldron. Can I touch it?”

Another benefit of wearing a helmet: she can’t tell that he takes a breath to calm himself before he answers. “Since when do you ask first?”

“Consent is very important to me. I can understand why you wouldn’t want it… mishandled.” She can’t keep a straight face as she delivers the line, and ends up grinning at him.

She can’t tell when he rolls his eyes, either. “Go on, then.” He shifts his shoulder forward, inviting her touch. She takes her hand from his leg to stroke the beskar. As she traces the edges of his pauldron, her smile fades to a somewhat reverent awe.

“It’s beautiful.” She leans in. Her nose almost touches the metal, like she’s going to kiss it. “Armorer did a good job.” One more touch, the pads of her fingers testing the smoothness of the surface, and she moves away. The look in her eyes is wistful and jealous.

He doesn’t say anything. He just watches her. It takes a moment for her to pull her gaze away from the beskar. Then she looks at him with a faint smile. When he still doesn’t speak, she raises her hand to trace the downward line of his visor - as close as she can get to touching his face in public.

“I hope you’ve been well,” she says softly. “I worry about you.”

He only has to cock his head to make her laugh.

“I know. You’re the best in the parsec. But you’re also my friend.” She reaches out and takes the bottom of his visor between her thumb and index finger, as though she’s chucking him under the chin. When she lets go, her thumbprint remains like a label: _if found, return to…_

“What do you want?” he asks. Not as harshly as he could say it. She likes to play games. He rarely has the patience unless he knows what the prize is at the end.

She sighs. “You saw.” She tilts her head toward the bar, indicating where her partner is now several drinks in and still flirting with the Quarren. “She’s taking that guy back to our place for the night, and I do _not_ want to be around to hear it. I was hoping I could sleep over.”

“I’m not running a hotel.” Nonetheless, his arm settles around her shoulders easily.

“And I wasn’t planning on paying you.” She touches his leg again, rubbing little circles against the inside of his thigh. “Although I’m sure I can make it worth your while somehow.”

“You’re incorrigible.” He shifts, leaning in toward her. The heads-up display inside his helmet puts a flickering icon in the corner of his vision. Her heart-rate is rising.

“Certified irredeemable,” she agrees. She stares straight into his visor unwaveringly, as though she can see his eyes. “You wouldn’t like me any other way.”

No, he wouldn’t. She always plays the distraction while her partner gets in range. He’s seen her in a handful of different disguises. An Imperial officer, straight-laced, her hair tied back severely. A pilot, harness tight over her jumpsuit, imitating the tics of an adrenaline junkie who hates to be on solid ground. A bartender, always moving, her shirt open just enough to earn an extra tip. But this is how he likes her: armored and armed, eyes bright, comfortable in her own skin. “Got a job,” he says. “I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”

“Then I promise not to stow away and steal your bounty.” She smiles and moves her hand higher. “What do you say?”

Shyla is still at the bar. If they meant to start something, she’d have moved closer by now. The nav index on the Razor Crest is linked to his helmet, and his helmet is locked to his biometric signature. If she wants to steal his ship, she’ll never get it off the ground. And if she wants to kill him - well, there are worse ways to go. “I say, stay out of my arms locker and I might make you breakfast.”

“But you’ve always got such nice toys.” She plays up the pout for a few seconds, sticking out her bottom lip, but can’t hold it and breaks into laughter. Her hand stops moving on his leg, her palm hot against his skin through the fabric. “Thank you, _copyc._ ”

“Only because you said you’d make it worth my while,” he lies. If she’d led with her request and left the flirting out of it, he would’ve taken her back to the Razor Crest for a hand of Liar’s Cut and let her hang a hammock in the cargo hold. She knows that. She likes to play games, and sometimes he plays along.

“I did, didn’t I? Hmm.” She drums her fingers on the inside of his thigh like she’s innocently tapping the table. He can’t stop a twitch, his leg jumping under her touch, and she smiles. “I’ve got a few ideas. Should I tell you more?”

He nods slowly, knowing how impassive it looks. She likes that. Sometimes he thinks she likes his persona as much or more than she likes _him._

 _“Ke’dinui gar murecya’e,”_ she murmurs, leaning in until she’s almost pressed cheek to cheek with him. _Give me your kisses. “Ni copaani gar kal.” I want your blade. “Te’habi ni.”_

He ruins the moment with a snort of laughter.

“What?” She sits back to look at him. “I’ve been practicing.”

He nods, gesturing vaguely until he’s sure he can speak without laughing. “That one means _take away, remove._ Not what you meant, unless you want to get out of here.”

“Kriff.” She laughs. “Well, let’s pretend that’s what I meant. Unless you’re waiting for something?”

“After you.”

She scoots out of the booth and makes room for him to follow. “I should tell Shyla I’m going,” she says, glancing over her shoulder toward the bar. “Meet you out the back door?”

“That works.” He gathers up his rifle before he stands. 

“Don’t get ambushed without me,” she teases. “I’d hate to miss the fun.”

He manages to make his laugh sound more like a scoff. She grins and taps his _kar’ta_ before she turns to walk away.


	2. A Helping Hand

He’s ready and waiting, when she finally comes. Not quite prowling. Definitely not hiding. Just waiting, in the shadows, where she doesn’t see him until he grabs her wrist.

Sometimes he likes to play games, too.

He’s got her right hand, so she can’t draw her blaster. She draws her vibroblade with her left and comes in low. He grabs her arm before she can gut him. She recognizes him now; he twists her arm only a few degrees, and she drops the knife. He pushes her back against the rough duracrete of the back alley wall, her hands above her head. The flickering icon that had told him about her heart-rate before is now a solid orange. Another symbol beside it, blinking yellow, tells him she’s breathing fast. He doesn’t need the indicator to know that. He can feel it, his chest pressed against hers.

“You’re getting slow,” he murmurs.

“I was a little distracted.” She wriggles, more in an attempt to wrap her leg around his hip than in an effort to escape.

“Hmm.” He switches his grasp to hold her wrists with his right hand and reaches down to stroke down the midline of her abdomen. She shivers under his hand, arching into the touch. He shifts with her, letting her pull him closer with her heel at the back of his thigh as he presses his half-hard erection against her hip. Her head falls back against the wall. Without thinking about it, he wraps his hand around the naked skin of her throat. The instinct is protective - she should wear her helmet, or at least the good blast-proof neck seal he knows she has. She opens her eyes to look at him again. He knows what she sees: the T of his visor reflecting back her own face. Featureless. Implacable.

She swallows and then licks her lips before she speaks. “I trust you.”

It’s irrational. He could hurt her. His hand slides higher, nestling under the angle of her jaw. It’s dangerous. He could get her killed. He strokes the line of her jaw with his thumb. It’s a weakness. He could use it against her. He releases her wrists and bring his right hand down to touch her lips.

When he presses gently against her mouth, she takes the cue to open. Her tongue flicks against his glove. He wonders what it tastes like. Dirt and leather, probably. “Bite,” he orders. She obeys, careful to let him withdraw his fingers and then catching the fingertips of his glove between her teeth so he can pull it off. He takes it from her and tucks it into his belt. He doesn’t tell her _good girl._ That would be patronizing. 

Her arms are wrapped around him now. It’s easy to find the clasp of her belt and open it. At the quiet _click_ of the buckle opening, her hips twitch toward him. He grinds back against her, almost able to feel the warmth of her body through his layers. She sighs and lets her eyes fall closed. He tugs her shirt up. When his fingers find the soft skin of her stomach, she gives a small gasp. She’s sensitive as a gunslinger’s hair-trigger blaster, but he can’t fault her for it. Not when her touch drives him just as crazy. Not when he knows if the situation was reversed, her hands on his skin, he would be gasping and impatient, too. Her hands press flat against his shoulder-blades under his cloak, holding him close. He finds the band of her underwear and moves his hand lower to cup the heat between her thighs. She shivers under his touch, and a soft whine escapes her throat.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. Her breath shudders out of her. It could almost be a uniquely Mandalorian eroticism - _tayli’gar._ A promise that this is about her trust in him, not his control over her. He curls his fingers and she gasps, clutching the fabric of his flak vest now. “You’re wet.”

“Yes,” she hisses, either in answer or in pleasure. 

He trails his fingers between her slick lower lips up to her clitoris. His calluses catch on the little nub of nerves. She moans - helpless, desperate - right in his ear. “For me?” he asks as he traces circles around it, as casually as if he’s tickling the back of her neck. As though there’s any doubt of her answer.

“Yes!” she whines. Her hips buck against his hand, and he lets her seek out her own pleasure. She gasps and shivers and squirms and pants, her nails a dull pressure against his back. For a moment, she makes him want to forget the Way; she makes him want to lose his helmet so he can kiss her lips, bite the soft skin of her neck, taste her sweat. He presses her back against the wall, forcing her to stop. Not here. Not now. She groans in protest.

“Awfully eager,” he teases. Like he isn’t hard in his _gam’e_ , ready to take her against the dirty wall where anyone could walk by and see.

“You turn me the fuck on, is that what you want to hear me say?” In the dim light of the alley, her eyes are dark and keen. “That I think about you at night when I’m -” She cuts herself off with a gasp as he settles his thumb on her clit and finds her entrance with his first two fingers.

“Keep talking,” he orders, rubbing her clit gently as he eases his fingers into her.

“Fuck, I love your hands,” she whimpers. “You’re so good, _copyc,_ I dream about you sometimes and I wake up so hot.” His palm is flush against her now. Where his other hand is still at her throat, he can feel her swallow.

“Did I say stop?”

She shakes her head frantically, panting for breath. He takes mercy on her, shifting to press the cool metal of his helmet against the flushed skin of her cheek. She moans softly. “Please don’t stop, _copyc,_ ” she whispers. “I want you so much.”

“I’ve got you,” he says again. This time he can feel her response as she clenches around his fingers. He thrusts them in and out of her, and she hisses like his touch burns. She’s clinging to him like he’s the only thing in her galaxy. He has her in the palm of his hand. If he was cruel, he could draw this out until she begs. He isn’t cruel. He keeps an even pace, enjoying the friction as her hips roll against his. 

The words falling from her mouth now are half pleading and half cursing: “Fuck, yes - please don’t stop - oh, kriff, _copyc_ \- you bastard, don’t stop -” When she comes apart, it’s with a high-pitched gasp. She leans into him as she trembles through her climax. He moves the hand at her throat to the back of her head and lets her rest on his shoulder. She moans as she comes down, her breath warm against his neck. 

It’s only when the last aftershocks of her orgasm have passed that he wriggles his hand back out of her pants. She makes a faint sound of disappointment. He rubs the back of her neck and she sighs, nuzzling into the folds of his cloak at his shoulder. After another moment, she lets her leg fall from where it’s wrapped around him. He wipes his fingers on a corner of his cloak and starts to do up the buckle of her belt. Her hands trail down his back, one stopping at the small of his back and the other wandering lower. She pulls him close again, bit by bit. He starts to relax in her embrace. Even though they’re technically in public. Even though they both have enemies who’d love to find them distracted in a dark alley. And then she starts to knead the muscle of his ass, and he can’t keep from jerking against her.

She chuckles in his ear, and this time he _can_ stop his instinctive reaction. If only barely. “You want me to return the favor?” she purrs.

 _Fuck, yes._ The idea makes his head swim. He wants her hands on his cock like a drink after days in the desert. But. Technically in public. Distracted in a dark alley. At the moment his desire is pleasantly fizzing at the base of his spine. If she winds him any tighter, the walk back to the Razor Crest is going to be uncomfortable. And if he lets her bring him off, the walk back will be a different kind of uncomfortable, the sticky and overstimulated kind. He sighs, and the tempting stroke of her hands slows. “Not here.”

“All right. Your call.” After she gives his butt a friendly squeeze, she shifts her hands to rest at his waist. He can pull away, but he doesn’t. He still has his hand cradling the back of her head, and he moves it higher to curl his fingers in her hair. She smiles at him lazily, smug as a rib-cat to be held and petted. He’s seen that smile often enough to have it memorized. He loves it, although he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to tell her so. Then one side of her smile crooks up into a smirk, and she raises an eyebrow. “Reconsidering?”

“No,” he tells her firmly. He taps his forehead against hers in a gentle imitation of a Keldabe kiss, and she giggles as he moves away. “Come on.”

“I already did that,” she replies. He groans audibly at the pun, making her laugh. Her hand slips into his as he steps away. He gives it a squeeze before he tugs her along after him, still laughing: "Wait, my knife!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Gam'e" (gahm-eh) means "skins", and is being used here to refer to all parts of _beskar'gam_ that are not armor - flight suit, flak vest, etc. Rib-cats live on Nar Shaddaa, and they're basically big-eared Siamese with six legs.
> 
> I haven't given this my usual meticulous re-read, so let me know if you catch any typos or errors.

**Author's Note:**

> "Copyc" (koh-peesh) means "appealing/attractive". In this case, it's being used as a term of endearment like addressing someone as "handsome". 
> 
> More to come. Find me at baar-ur.tumblr.com if you want.


End file.
